Where the Sorrows Are
by WriterJC
Summary: COMPLETE! A stakeout goes horribly, horribly wrong. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews :)
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer**: The characters used in this story do not belong to me, or at least I'm not making any money off of them. In fact, I think I'm feeding into the franchise. Copyright holders, you guys should be thanking us . . . .

**Rating:** PG to PG-13ish, due to themes. One might potentially see most of this on the show.

**Author's Note:** I wrote this solely based upon a line in the episode "You Bet Your Life". The episode was mostly unremarkable, but the line simply stuck with me. I'd love to tell you what the line is, but it'd be a spoiler at this point. So, I'll add a little note at the end in case anyone misses it. Also, in this universe, either Carol Sloan did not die, or this story takes place before that episode in the time line.

Special thanks to a very encouraging bunch of ladies who know who they are.

**Summary:** A stake out that Steve is involved in goes very wrong.

**Where the Sorrows Are**

By WriterJC

"Beautiful day for a stake out. How you doing out there, Sloan?"

Steve glanced skyward, grimacing at the steadily falling streaks of wetness. Then, leaning his head toward the collar of his jacket, he replied to the static-y voice. "Drenched. Wondering who I offended." He hadn't quite figured out how it happened that of the 8 man team outside of one of LA's many old abandoned buildings, he was the one who had gotten tagged to play the bum huddled in the rain, especially as he was the one who had provided the lead that had gotten them to that point.

He had considered himself fortunate to have come by the tip while investigating a homicide earlier in the week. He'd even rewarded his snitch handsomely, including buying him a beer. But now, after nearly two hours in the rain, he was beginning to think the joke was on him.

"This is what happens when we invite you homicide types," the disembodied voice replied in his ear. "Always whining."

Steve half chuckled, preparing a rude response, but the chuckle and the response were quickly forgotten when he caught sight of movement at the far end of the alley. Alert adrenaline kicked in as he noticed headlights flicker and bounce as a vehicle maneuvered uneven pavement.

"Look alive," he murmured into his collar and hunkered farther down into the ratty overcoat. The overhang under which he sat provided some cover, but droplets escaped around the edges of the rusted metal shelf and its torn once-green tarpaulin. He'd discovered early on in the evening that if he sat just so he could avoid most of the moisture. But as the dark colored SUV rolled through the alley, he leaned farther back into the darkness and directly into the path of much of the falling water. Getting wet was a small price to pay if it meant that he'd be helping to bring down Julio Rodriguez, one of the city's newest up-and-coming drug lords.

He remained in the uncomfortable position as a man dressed in a dark suit climbed out of the passenger side of the vehicle, adjusted his jacket and took a surreptitious look around.

Steve's own gaze swept over the two large industrial-sized garbage bins. Old and rusted, they looked innocuous enough. He doubted that the man would notice anything amiss with either of them. Short of a direct tip off, there was no way he could know that the big containers served as camouflage for the LAPD van and the second part of the team.

Should the man happen to look farther into the shadows, past the stacked crates and old boxes beneath the old 'walk-up' counter, and notice one more bum on the mean streets of LA, so be it. Just the same, Steve remained hidden in the dimness.

Apparently deciding that the coast was clear enough, the man drew out a black umbrella from inside the vehicle, opened then extended it over the rear passenger side of the vehicle before opening the door.

The man that Steve immediately recognized as Julio Rodriguez stepped out. Dark haired and fit, even beneath a suit and from a distance, he had the attitude and demeanor to match his reputation as a cocky young upstart.

Rodriguez turned and spoke some words to someone remaining in the rear passenger section of the vehicle. Then he and his accomplice turned and headed toward the building.

"Positive ID on Rodriguez," Steve spoke into his collar. "Two entered the building; two remaining in the vehicle."

"Team A, move out. Eliminate beta target."

Steve felt a heightened awareness at the order to go. He quickly removed his gun from its hiding place and prepared for action. The bulky overcoat was peeled off, revealing black Kevlar emblazoned with the letters "LAPD" in white reflective lettering. He then readjusted his comm. device, all the while his gaze remained fixed on the shadows that were closing in on the unsuspecting occupants of the SUV.

In under thirty seconds, the two men in the truck were cuffed and unconscious and being dragged behind the large garbage bins. The command came to take the building and Steve moved out with the rest of the team. Half a dozen dark-clad forms, weapons at the ready, closed in on the old structure.

Rodriguez and his side kick weren't difficult to find. Once they penetrated into the inner sections of the old building and wound their way through abandoned sections of machinery, they simply followed the distinctive smells of a meth lab. Dim, barely functioning bulbs hung from high above lit the way.

Rodriguez, his accomplice, and the three college kids that they'd hired to brew up the highly addictive substance went down with little fight. Steve was beginning to think that his good fortune was returning.

"Heckuva lead, Sloan." The words from Alan Siskar, the trim blonde-headed team leader with a receding hair line, were accompanied by a slap on the back. "Guess you got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Steve joked with the man. "Or maybe you vice pukes need homicide to come over and show you a thing or two every now and then."

"Not possible, bro. You missed your calling. You should step on over to vice full time."

Steve shook his head, chuckling. Though it was always flattering when someone complimented one's work, Steve knew where he stood on the matter. "I've already had that calling," he said. "I'm where I need to be."

"Alright," Siskar shrugged good-naturedly. "But if you ever change your mind . . . ." He let the words hang, then, "You know that there might be an accommodation in this."

"That's not why I signed up," Steve told him. Then softening the words by teasing, he added, "It's you vice yokels who are the glory hounds, while homicide just quietly plugs away."

"There you go, proving my point. All that homicide cop whining. Want some cheese to go with it?"

They both shared a laugh, but an out of place sound ended their mirth. They both reached for their weapons, attracting the attention of two members of the team who were standing among the lab paraphernalia.

Siskar raised a silencing hand toward the other two members. "What's the story on the black and whites?" he asked, his tone completely at odds with the serious expression he wore.

Brinker, knowing the question he was really asking, responded, "Just pulling in now – loading up the prisoners and helping to secure the scene outside."

"Why don't we go ahead and get this stuff catalogued, then. Help CSU out." He said the words, but his gesture told them to stay with the lab equipment. Then, sharing a significant look with Steve, he gestured his head in the direction from which the noise had come.

Steve nodded, and they headed out into the dimmer areas beyond the lab. He understood that if the patrol units had only arrived on scene, they wouldn't be on this level of the building yet, nor would they have had time to reach the dark confines on the other side of the illegal laboratory. There was someone else inside.

The lighting that had worked to their advantage in finding and capturing Rodriquez and his operation were of no use in this new search. It seemed that they hadn't bothered to ensure that good illumination was available in the section of the building that they weren't using. Large shadows were cast by abandoned crates and machinery, scattered haphazardly about, no doubt moved by the college students or Rodriguez's goons to clear working space.

Another sound came, and Siskar gestured that they split up. Steve, in agreement, moved the opposite way around a stack of misshapen boxes. He paused there, his back against the boxes as he listened for further sounds of movement. Nothing. He crept slowly toward the edge of the side of the box and peeked around it before moving quickly and silently toward his next bit of cover: a large section of some unknown piece of equipment. He continued in that manner for several yards, until he worked his way to a section of the room that reeked of human smells and he wondered who Rodriguez may have had to run off before setting up shop.

He followed his gun from behind another section of stacked debris and found himself staring into a stunned pair of eyes. It took a moment for him to come to terms with the fact that he was looking down his barrel into a familiar young face. The young man's name eluded him, but the heavy caliber semi-automatic that he was pointing in his direction did not.

"Drop your weapon," Steve ordered, staring into the boy's eyes, weighing his resolve, trying to gauge whether the fear he saw there would drive him to surrender or fight. Worse than the boy's fright was the unmistakable signs of a drug user in need of a fix. Steve waited to see how he would respond.

"I can't. I can't stay here. You've gotta let me go." The boy's voice shook, and desperation crowded into his eyes along with all of the other emotions.

"You don't want to do this," Steve told him, his heart sinking at the battle that was before him. The kid obviously needed help, but the situation that he had gotten himself into was dicey, and could only lead downhill. "There are police officers crawling all over this place. You have nowhere to run. Your best bet is to just put down your weapon and then things will go more easily for you."

"No. My dad would find out and it would kill him. You've gotta let me go."

In that moment, Steve recalled where he had seen the young man before. Community General's annual family banquet had been held several weeks prior, and as he recalled the young man had remained morose during most of the event. That was why he had come to Steve's attention – everyone else had enjoyed the magic show and the dunking booth and other things that were going on, but this young man had looked as if he'd rather be anyplace else but there. He had meant to try to draw him into one of the games, but someone had come along and he had become distracted. When he had looked back, the boy was gone.

"I can't let you go," Steve told him. "I want to help you to get better. Your dad would want that. Your new life can start today, if you'll just put the gun down. That's all you have to do." He tried not to look into the shadows where Siskar was quietly moving in from behind. They might be able to take him without too much of a fight after all.

"No, you don't understand." The young man's face hardened. "You put down your gun, and I'm leaving. That's the way it has to be."

In the next moment everything seemed to happen at once. Something slammed hard into Steve's chest, followed by two loud bangs which reverberated around in his brain. He felt the recoil of his own weapon and then he felt himself going down. He never felt the impact of hitting the ground.

Time became hazy, leaving him afloat, unsure of its passage. He thought he might have sensed blurring images and far away voices and then suddenly, loud noises and pain rushed in on him. The whole of his chest felt as if someone had taken a giant sledge hammer to it; the agony extended down his arm and toward rapidly numbing finger tips. He wanted to cry out but couldn't find the breath to do so.

"Sloan, you okay? Sloan? You with me here?" The anxious voice was suddenly too loud, pulling him back from some precipice. He then felt someone removing his gun from his slack grip. Worry and fear filtered through him, and he managed to force his eyes open wide enough to recognize the face of Geoffrey Brinker. Another cop. It was okay.

"You with me, Steve?" Brinker asked, staring at him, an urgent expression on his square, mustachioed face.

"Yeah," Steve gasped out the reply, and tried to push himself into a sitting position. "What . . . ?"

"Maybe you shouldn't move just yet," Brinker suggested, glancing to a point out of Steve's view from his current prone position.

"No. I'm okay," Steve insisted, wincing his way through the pain as he struggled to get up. The need to know what had happened became paramount. He looked across the open area and saw Siskar bent over the young man who he suddenly recalled had been holding a gun on him. The boy wasn't moving, and there was a growing pool coating the concrete flooring around him.

Steve wasn't sure how he covered the few yards that separated him from Siskar, but that's where he found himself, trying to help staunch the flow of much too much blood. He didn't need to ask to know that things weren't looking good.

"I think I sorta knew this kid," he confessed to Siskar, but the words did nothing to alleviate the heaviness and dread that were at odds with physical pain. The kid had barely begun his life, and already it might be over.

Siskar looked at him, sharing his regret. "'Medic unit is on the way," was all he said as they continued to do what they could, but the young man's blood continued to flow.

(tbc)


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

"Any change?" Jesse and his team met the gurney as soon as it cleared the doors leading from the ambulance bay. One of the paramedics was riding along on the side of the moving bed administering chest compressions, and the other was pushing the gurney while methodically squeezing an ambu-bag which was attached over the patient's nose and mouth.

"Nothing since last communication. He's been down for four minutes."

"Let's get him to trauma one," Jesse said, trading out with the medic who had been doing CPR. As the gurney was wheeled toward the indicated trauma suite, Jesse took in the young man's over all appearance. Blood spatters marred much of his clothing, and the skin that was exposed had taken on a pale, translucent quality. Jesse had seen enough traumas to know that the situation was grim. If they were able to pull the young man back, there would be a chance that he'd suffer damage due to hypovolemia. But he had to try due to the patient's age. It just might work in his favor.

As the gurney rolled around the corner, some sixth sense told Jesse to glance up. In that brief moment he saw his friend, Steve Sloan, standing in the doorway leading from the ambulance bay. His right arm was held in a guarding position around his abdomen. There was blood on his hands.

Jesse nearly lost his place, but then the trauma room doors swung shut and he refocused on saving the patient at hand. Steve was up and mobile; simple rules of triage required that the most severe cases be handled first. But that didn't stop him from worrying.

Fifteen minutes later, at 9:41 pm, he called the time of death. Removing his gloves and bloodied garments, Jesse heaved a great sigh and walked out of the trauma room; the young ones were always the hardest. He found Steve outside of the door waiting for him.

"How is he?" Steve asked, not even bothering to push himself away from the wall that he was leaning against. Even to the unpracticed eye he would have looked pale and exhausted.

Jesse noted, too, that he had cleaned up, as there were no longer smears of blood on his hands and arms. At some point, he had also removed the Kevlar vest, and was dressed in a dark colored t-shirt which had the crumpled look of having been wet and then mostly dried on its wearer. His hair too had that same appearance of mussed dampness. But it was the lines etched in his face, and the way he continued to hold his right arm curved around his body that told the story of considerable physical pain. Offering his gentlest smile of regret, Jesse answered his question, "He didn't make it. I'm sorry."

Steve's shoulders slumped and a poorly covered wince crossed over his features. It wasn't something Jesse could let go by.

"Why don't we get you looked at?" he asked with practiced nonchalance as he placed a hand on the arm that wasn't obviously injured. The goal was to get him into one of the other examination rooms as the nurses would be still handling the final care of the patient that remained in trauma one.

"No," Steve pulled away, unwilling to be led. "We've got to notify his family. He was so young. Someone is going to miss him."

"That's what the staff is doing right now," Jesse assured him, trying again to pull him along. "We've got his identification, and once we know who his parents or guardians are, I'll break the news to them."

Steve stood his ground and wouldn't be moved. There was a look of frozen horror on his face. "You mean you don't know who he is?"

Jesse frowned and shook his head in confusion. He wondered if Steve had suffered a head injury at some point during the night and mentally added a head CT to the battery of tests that he was planning to order.

"Someone in his family works here," Steve insisted. "At Community General. I saw him at the family banquet a few months ago."

"And you shot him?" The words were out before Jesse could stop them. He was used to saying whatever came into his mind to his friend, but then this obviously wasn't the time.

He quickly tried to make amends. "I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't mean that the way it sounded." But it was clear that the damage was already done. Steve paled significantly, and didn't even try to fight.

"It's a police matter, Jess," he said quietly. Then, drawing away farther, he added, "I'm fine. I was wearing Kevlar. Maybe I can use the hospital's records to find his next of kin."

"Why don't I do that while you get yourself checked out? I know you're a terrific cop, and I should have been more careful with my wording. You know me, open mouth, and insert foot. But I'll understand completely if you'd prefer to have another doctor look at you."

Despite obvious misery, Steve offered a small smile. "Well, I've actually come to think of you as my own personal doctor. It wouldn't feel right to have someone else badgering me about my health."

Jesse returned the smile, relieved to have his friend's forgiveness. "Am I supposed to be to blame because you're so badger-able?" he asked, leading Steve once again toward an examination room. Along the way he stopped a nurse and asked her to check the hospital records for any relation to the young man in trauma one, he also asked her to give Doctor Sloan a call at home, letting him know that his son had once again run afoul of trouble which had left him in the capable hands of Community General's caring staff.

Mark hurried through the entry doors and immediately caught sight of Jesse speaking with Dr. Miles Casey, one of the physicians assigned to orthopedics. He wanted to rush forward and break in on the conversation so that he might find out what was going on with Steve. But it ended and Casey turned and entered one of the trauma rooms.

"Jesse?" Mark called out to him as he approached. "What happened? How is he?" His heart had been literally pounding with worry during the long drive in from Malibu. The nurse hadn't been able to tell him anything, saying only that he had been mobile, but Mark couldn't stop worrying until he knew for sure that everything was going to be okay.

"Mark," Jesse greeted him with a smile, which was a positive in Mark's estimation. He knew how close Jesse and his son were. If anything were dangerously wrong with Steve, it would show in Jesse's demeanor. "You just missed him. Sent him up to X-ray a couple minutes ago with what I hope will amount to a lot of bruising and a sprained elbow. He was shot, but he was wearing a vest. It stopped the bullet, but the impact was pretty strong. We're probably going to want to keep him overnight for observation."

"Thank . . . ." A loud cry from trauma one interrupted Mark's thought. He glanced toward the room, remembering that Dr. Casey had gone in just moments before. "What . . . ." he looked in askance toward Jesse.

"It's . . . okay," Jesse tried to wave off his conversation, then by way of explanation, "I'm not entirely sure, but I think he may have just discovered that he's lost his son. Why don't you go on up and see Steve, I'll check on him."

Mark look worriedly back toward the room. He could well imagine the pain that Casey was feeling. There was something so deeply horrific about a parent losing a child that one often felt the need to look away. It was difficult to offer consolation because there was no consolation, but a certain counting of one's own blessings. It made Mark all the more anxious to go and see Steve, and to convey to him somehow how important he was to his life.

"Let me know if there is anything I can do," Mark responded sincerely to Jesse, though he was already half turned and headed for Radiology.

Jesse gave him a significant look. "Thanks, Mark. I will. Give Steve a hard time for me."

Mark only nodded at the mild attempt at humor. His mind was already focused on what he might find in Radiology. It was one thing to know that someone had pointed a gun at his son and pulled the trigger; it was quite another to know that someone else was probably going to do it again. He lived with that fear day in and day out. He'd become accustomed to saying a silent prayer every morning, asking that Steve return home safely at the end of the day.

As he stepped through the doors into the radiology department, his thoughts came to a halt as he saw Steve lying on a gurney, a thin hospital blanket covering him while he awaited his turn to be x-rayed. He was staring up at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thought.

"Anything interesting there?" Mark asked as he approached.

Steve looked at him, the smallest of smiles touching his lips. "Hi, Dad. I'm fi---."

"Fine?" Mark interrupted with a warm smile. "I know. Jesse and all the rest of us are just over reacting because we care so much."

Steve's response was another of his tiny smiles.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked, leaning closer to the gurney. He could see bruising and some swelling where the sheet didn't completely cover Steve's chest, and didn't want to make him feel as if he had to strain his voice in any way.

"Tired," Steve replied, though Mark could tell that he was thinking something else. Mark let it slide.

"As soon as they're done with the x-rays, you'll probably be taken to a room where you can get some sleep. Jesse did tell you that they were keeping you overnight?"

"He told me," Steve confessed. Then, after a long moment, "Did he tell you anything else?"

Mark's brow furrowed. "Anything like what?" Somehow he didn't think Steve was talking about his own health issues. He seemed far too intent on the answer, for one thing.

"About the boy?" Steve prompted. "Ryan Casey?"

Mark shook his head in confusion. He had no idea where Steve was going, but it was obviously very important to him. Then suddenly the pieces began to click into place. "He's the one who shot you, isn't he?"

Steve nodded. "And now he's dead."

"It was a lovely ceremony," Amanda said as she leaned sideways toward Mark.

"Yes, it was," Mark agreed as he looked around the grassy overlook at the others who were gathered for the memorial of Ryan Casey. Point McGhee had been one of Ryan's favorite places – to honor that memory, the gathered throng had watched as his mother, accompanied by other family members scattered his ashes over the Pacific Ocean. There was one relative though who was notably absent. Ryan's father had not attended.

"Too bad Dr. Casey didn't show up," Amanda murmured under her breath, nearly mirroring Mark's thoughts.

"I'm worried about him," Mark said, turning to look back toward the clearing which stood between the bluff and Pacific Coast Highway. The area was crowded with the vehicles of those who had attended the service. Mark hoped that he would see Dr. Casey approaching, instead he saw a tall form standing amid all of the automobiles. Though he wore a dark suit and tie, the jacket was merely laid across one shoulder to accommodate the sling he was due to wear for another few days.

Mark found his gaze lingering. Though he couldn't make out Steve's expression at such a distance, he could imagine the solemn countenance.

The decision to come to the funeral had been a hard fought one. Though he had felt driven to do so, he hadn't thought that he deserved to be there. Then the decision of the department had come down the night before, and so Steve had come. But still, unable to bring himself to mingle in with the crowd, he'd stayed behind in the parking lot, viewing from a distance.

Because of Lt. Siskar's testimony and the evidence, much of the officer-involved shooting investigation had been resolved quickly. Steve had been absolved of any wrong doing in the incident. Blessedly, there had been no media cries of unnecessary force or any of the other charges that typically arose in those types of cases. With his own guilt feelings, being tried in the press was the last thing Steve needed.

"People handle grief in their own way." Amanda's words interrupted his thoughts. "And he's not the only one you're worried about."

Mark chuckled. "You found me out." He shrugged in surrender.

"How's he really doing?"

"Not sleeping very well, but pretending that he is. In pain, pretending that he isn't."

"That's our Steve," Amanda replied. "And it's only because he cares. He'll be fine, you'll see. I know what the coroner's office report says about the shooting, and I can guess what the rest of the department's in the OIS investigation had to say. It was a clear case of un-intentional shooting. Ryan shot first and Steve's gun went off as a result. He isn't to blame. In his heart he knows that."

"You're probably right, but that doesn't mean that I won't worry while we're waiting. He has an appointment with the department psychologist next week."

"Good. And what sort of parents would we be if we didn't worry?"

Mark chuckled and wrapped an arm about her shoulders and squeezed. "What sort indeed?"

"Hey, what am I missing? "

Both Mark and Amanda turned at Jesse's voice.

"What were you doing? Reciting your life history?" Amanda gestured toward the line of guests still waiting to offer personal condolences.

"I was being comforting," Jesse said defensively. "And besides, she did most of the talking." He then turned to Mark, changing the subject. "I need to get back to the hospital. Do you mind if we head back to your place so I can get my car?"

-- -- --

A/N: Thanks everyone for the kind reviews. :) Two more parts to go!


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

Mark looked over at Steve after he pulled the car to a halt in the garage and cut the engine. Their friends had already gotten out, and were steering their own vehicles down the driveway and out toward the highway. Steve was absently running a hand up and down the arm that was in a sling.

"Is it bothering you?" Mark queried.

"Yeah, a little," Steve admitted, and ceased the motion. "Guess I won't be playing tennis anytime soon."

Mark chuckled and gestured toward the boxes piled on one side of the garage. "That is if you could find the rackets."

"Good point."

"So how are you feeling otherwise?" Mark asked, testing the waters. The atmosphere was much lighter than it had been before the funeral.

Steve touched a hand to his chest. "Still pretty sore, but I'll survive."

Mark shot him a look. It wasn't an answer to the question Mark had asked, and he thought Steve knew it. "Thanks for letting me know that," he told him, "But now if you wouldn't mind answering the real question."

"I'm okay, Dad. Really."

Mark took in the circles beneath his eyes and the general air of exhaustion and thought to say something about it, but then decided against the idea. "Funerals sometimes have a way of providing closure," he suggested instead.

"Yeah, maybe." Steve blew out a breath. "Mostly I wish that I had done something to help him."

"It can be difficult to help someone who is pointing a gun at you. And even after he was shot, and you were wounded yourself, you worked with Lt. Siskar to try and save his life. I don't know what more could you have done."

"No, before that," Steve corrected him. "At the CG family banquet -- I saw him there. He was sitting off to himself, and I could tell that there was something wrong. I'd intended to go over and try to talk him into joining one of the games, but I never did. If I had, maybe none of this would have happened."

Mark sighed inwardly as the final piece of the puzzle regarding Steve's guilt feelings fell into place. "And that makes you responsible," Mark said, following Steve's logic to its obvious conclusion.

"To a degree, yes."

"I seem to recall that you were pretty busy that day between running a BBQ stand and a dunking booth, never mind everything else you did to help out."

"I should have made the time," Steve insisted. "Someone's life depended on it."

"You don't know that. You didn't make Ryan take drugs or pick up a gun in a drug hang out. Those were all his choices, not yours."

"I know, Dad," Steve admitted. "But --."

"No buts," Mark interrupted. "You did the best that you could. You always do your best which is why you're so good at your job. And on top of that you care."

A light flush of embarrassment worked it way into Steve's cheeks. "Dad . . . ."

Mark stifled a chuckle and patted his shoulder. "You need to remember that, son. And remember that just like us doctors, no matter how hard you try, you can't save them all."

"I know. Thanks, Dad." Steve's smile broadened. "Maybe I can skip the department shrink and just talk to you."

Mark made a face. "See the psychologist," he encouraged. "But in the meantime, since you're listening to your old man: why don't you go on downstairs and take a nap while I whip us up something special for dinner?"

Steve raised his good arm in surrender. "No arguments here."

While Steve headed down to his unit for some much needed rest, Mark went to the refrigerator and retrieved the steaks that he'd purchased the night before. He'd intended to broil them, as dragging the grill out onto the deck and lighting it seemed overkill when cooking for just one or two. But he knew that Steve would enjoy it, and so, after sprinkling a bit of Steve's favorite grill seasoning over them, he headed out of the French doors to get the fire going.

The late afternoon sun was lovely and held the promise of a beautiful evening. Perhaps they could eat outside as well. But as he moved toward the door of the small storage room off the deck, he was surprised to find someone huddled there against the wall.

"Miles?" Dinner was forgotten as Mark rushed forward, stooping down beside the other man, worried that he had done something to hurt himself. Drawing closer though, he realized just what it was that Miles had done. In fact the evidence was still wrapped in his arms, empty.

"Mark?" Red-rimmed eyes focused blearily on him. "There you are," Miles slurred, waving the empty bottle haphazardly. "I came here to have a word with you and . . . and . . . him."

"Miles." Mark sighed, saddened at the other man's state. Though dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was clearly in no state to have attended Ryan's funeral. The shirt looked as if he might have spilled a portion of the alcohol on it, and the jacket was ruined by sand and what Mark suspected was ocean water. "Why don't you come inside and get cleaned up? I'll make you something to drink and then we can talk."

"Good idea. You owe me," Mile said, and allowed Mark to help him to his feet and lead him into the den. Mark settled him onto the sofa and, taking the empty bottle with him, headed for the kitchen. There were a couple of Steve's sports drinks in the refrigerator, one of which Mark poured into a glass and carried back to the den with him.

"I never got a chance to offer you my condolences," Mark said as he handed over the beverage. "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Miles looked measuringly across at him, took a sip of the drink and then sputtered, spraying his dark slacks and part of the coffee table. "You could get me a real drink, for one."

"You know I can't do that," Mark told him, settling in a chair across from him. "The alcohol is dehydrating you. That sports drink will help by restoring some of your electrolytes."

Miles sat the glass down on the table, clearly disgusted. "Well, I'm not going to be long anyway. I just wanted to tell you that your son had no right being at the funeral after he killed my son, no right at all."

"So you were there?" Mark sat up straighter. "I never saw you, and I was looking."

"I was there long enough."

"And then you left, to go get drunk?" Mark questioned.

"That's none of your business."

"It is when you end up on my property." Mark pointed out.

Miles rose unsteadily to his feet. "I can fix that!"

"No, Miles. I'm sorry," Mark stood and headed the man off. Mild guilt flooded his system. "I'm not trying to make things more difficult for you. But look at yourself. Surely you know that this is no way to honor Ryan's memory. I know its hard, but you just have to keep trying and get through it. Do it for him."

The fire went out of Miles' stance and he stood there, looking dejected. "How can you?" he asked softly.

Mark frowned in confusion. "How can I what?"

"How can you know what I'm feeling? How can you know what its like to lose a child unless it happens to you?"

"Because I've been close, so close that I can still taste the fear of it. I know what it's like, Miles."

"No you don't." Miles disagreed softly, and then settled back into the chair. "But it doesn't matter does it? None of it matters." He looked up at Mark and his eyes were filled with tears. "Did you know that after his mother and I divorced, I started teaching him about guns? I thought it would protect him, maybe even help us to bond. Did you know he made Marksman?"

"No, I didn't know that," Mark said gently. "But it's obvious that you're very proud of him."

Miles gave a small dismissive shake of his head. "I failed him in the most important way. Something has been bothering him the past 5 or 6 months and I was never able to figure out what it was. Truth is, I was probably too busy to try."

Mark didn't miss the irony that both Steve and Miles felt as if they'd failed Ryan, and that he was the one who was trying to convince them both otherwise. "You didn't fail him," Mark said. "You did the best you could – that's all any parent can do for their children. It was his decisions that got him into trouble. You would never have told him to do those things."

"No." Miles rubbed absently at his temple. "I wouldn't have. But none of that matters, either."

"Headache?" Mark gestured toward the action.

"Yeah." Miles sighed the answer out and closed his eyes.

Mark glanced toward the kitchen. He hesitated to give the man aspirin after having consumed so much alcohol, instead he made another offer. "Why don't I offer you a sandwich to go along with that drink?"

"I really should go," Miles said, not looking upward, but continuing to rub at his temples.

"No, you're in no condition to drive. Why don't I fix that sandwich and then give you a ride home. Tomorrow Jesse and I will find you car and bring it to you."

Miles nodded reluctant agreement and sank back into the chair.

Miles opened his eyes and found himself in strange surroundings. His brain felt oddly fuzzy, and his body felt clumsy and not entirely his own. But then his gaze settled on the sandwich sitting beside a glass of clear liquid on the table and rushes of memory returned. The sadness settled over him like a suffocating blanket, and he was suddenly very certain that he was going to be sick.

He glanced frantically about, trying to remember where the bathroom was from a long ago visit to the beach house. He caught sight of Mark out on the deck, busily doing something with a grill and thought better of heading in that direction. Going with his best guess, he set off down a corridor. He made it barely in time. As he was there, collapsed on his knees, losing what little he'd managed to eat the past few days, he wondered how he was ever going to survive this.

When he was able to bring himself shakily to his feet, he cleaned up and made his way back out toward the den. But as he passed a section of steps leading downward, an odd curiosity drove him to follow them. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he reached the bottom, or why he had a desire to visit Steve Sloan's living quarters, he only knew he had to go. Perhaps in some strange way seeing the place where he slept and relaxed would help him to see the cop as a man and not as the monster that he'd grown to be in his mind.

The living area was very reminiscent of the upper level of the house, only much smaller. The rooms were neat and well kept; Steve Sloan obviously took care of his things. Continuing out of a small kitchen and across a living room and along a corridor, he saw the foot of a bed through the open door.

He took the few steps that brought him to the door of the bedroom, peered inside and got the second most intense shock of his life. It was nearly too much for him to see the man that he had come to hate over the past few days sleeping soundly in his bed. Mark had made no mention of Steve being home, and Miles was completely unprepared for that reality. He stood at the foot of the bed, feeling like his mind was removed from his body, as if he was watching events through someone else's eyes.

The bedside drawer was partially opened, and his body was pulled unerringly forward toward the bit of metal that was just visible in the shadows. _You'll never know what it's like . . . . You'll never know what it's like to lose a child unless you experience it. _The words dogged his steps and thoughts.In a dreamlike way, even as he quietly opened the drawer and took the cool heaviness of the gun into his palm, he noted every nuance of the man curved in a near fetal position atop the covers.

Vaguely, from a distance, he heard someone calling to him. Steve began to stir, straightening first one long leg and then the other before turning his head in the direction of the sound. Miles slowly backed away, the gun leveled on the man in the bed.

Steve's eyes flew wide with shock and he jerked upward into a sitting position. Miles wasn't sure what happened in that moment. He only knew that something loud sounded in the room and that his arm jerked several times.

Steve was thrown back against the headboard as splotches of red splattered across the lampshade and the comforter. Unbalanced, his body did a slow slide sideways and he dropped off the bed and to the floor, taking the contents of the night stand with him. A trail of crimson followed.

Miles would never recall what followed as light seemed to fade from the room and his mind simply shut down.


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**

Mark jumped down onto Community General's helipad and quickly stepped back as the med techs got Steve's gurney down to the tarmac and moving toward the ER. The events that had taken place since he'd heard the gunshots ring out from Steve's apartment had taken their toll. His legs were weak and shaky, and he felt inadequate even to the task of carrying Steve's IV bag as they ran toward the entrance doors. But he persevered because he knew that the fight for Steve's life was far from over.

The horror of the return image flooded his mind as they ran along. His first view as he'd approached Steve's room had been of Miles sitting on the floor just inside the door. Steve's gun lay a few feet away as he stared uncomprehending toward the bed.

Seeing the gun so near Miles almost stole Mark's breath away. He rushed into the room, ignoring the deeply disturbed man, looking only for his son. His heart stumbled, and tears of fear and panic flooded his eyes. His firstborn was crumpled on the floor, a growing crimson stain in his upper chest and most fearful of all, the right side of his face and hair was saturated with more of the life-sustaining fluid. On some level, he also noticed the splintered wood of the headboard where at least one stray bullet had impacted, but he would have been hard pressed to recall it in those initial moments when he went to his knees at Steve's side, desperate and praying that he would find a pulse.

It was there, but erratic; Steve was already going into shock, and his breathing was troubling. Somehow, he managed to call for a life-flight and coherently communicate his address while struggling to patch the chest injury which he suspected involved the lung, and stop the heavily bleeding head injury.

He only looked at Miles once more, and that was when he opened the patio doors that led in to Steve's bedroom from the beach side of the property. Miles was then taken into custody by the LAPD, and transported separately for medical and psychiatric evaluation.

Mark didn't have a spare ounce of energy to deal with Miles. He could only focus on the man on the gurney whose life lay in the balance.

The ER doors yawned open ahead and Jesse and his team rushed out to meet them. The transfer from the paramedics to the ER staff was done quickly and efficiently, and Mark was thankful that Jesse seemed to know on some level that he needed to take over in Steve's care. He immediately began issuing orders as they continued to roll on toward the designated suite.

As they entered the room Mark felt dazed and helpless. His medical knowledge seemed to be of little use aside from affirming the severity of Steve's injuries. He felt as someone removed Steve's upraised IV bag from his hand, and noticed peripherally as it was placed on the stand near the bed. He was then gently moved backward as the trauma team went to work.

Blood was taken, oxygen sats were checked, X-rays were shot; he vaguely heard as Jesse made some comment about the chest tube that he'd rigged in Steve's room, before he announced to the room at large that they were ready to move him to OR. Mark managed to find the strength to follow.

"Mark, no," Jesse paused to stop him. "He's in good hands. We'll take care of him."

"But, Jesse. I need to be there. I need to know –." The words seemed to pour from him, his desperation obvious to his own ears.

"Mark, you know as well as I do why you can't be in there. Now I've got to go and take care of Steve. I'll let you know . . . ." Jesse glanced beyond him, and paused. Mark was too worried and anxious to follow the gaze, but he felt the warm hand that settled on his upper arm.

"He'll let us both know." Amanda's voice sounded at his side, completing the sentence Jesse had started. Mark turned and looked down at her. Vaguely he noticed that Jesse took the opportunity to leave the suite, following the rest of the team. Something in Amanda's expression held him.

"All we can do is wait," she said, and his mind immediately latched upon the old and still painful memory of that other time. And oddly it gave him hope. Steve had beaten those injuries; he would beat these. He had to.

The court room fell into silence; even the usual paper shuffling, throat clearing and general fidgeting seemed to fade away as Steve turned away from the podium and took the first steps that would lead him back to his seat. Mark felt his throat tighten for just a moment as he watched, his arms aching to assist him. But he knew that Steve wouldn't want that. He simply continued the careful measured steps that brought him to Mark's side.

As he sank into the chair, Mark briefly caught his eye, his emotions caught someplace between proud and mystified. It was barely two weeks since he had been so gravely injured, and only a few days since his release from Community General, yet he had found the strength to stand before the court to speak at Miles Casey's sentencing hearing.

For Mark, the memory of those days was so close – too close, and the reminders remained. Though the section of hair that had been shaved was growing back, the area was still visible beneath the longer strands of hair which fell over it. He only had to close his eyes to see the return of the white bandaging that had covered the area of Steve's head where the bullet had creased him, causing a major concussion. He heart would never allow him to forget the waiting during the hours of surgery to repair the nicked lung and the shoulder wound where the other bullet had struck him. Almost worse had been Steve's struggle with the chest tube and the infection that seemed to settle in almost immediately. But true to his strength of character, Steve was rapidly overcoming the physical damage stemming from the ordeal.

Mark knew that Steve had not recalled anything that had taken place after they'd left for Ryan's funeral service. Due to the trauma, he probably never would, but he had heard what had happened in very vivid detail during the course of the brief investigation.

Despite lingering weakness, fatigue and pain, he had surprised them all by not only insisting on being there for the hearing, but delivering a statement that seemed almost sympathetic, and hinted at emotions that he normally kept firmly under lock and key. The point that stuck most in Mark's mind was Steve's mention of while not completely comprehending the grief Casey had experienced as he had no children of his own; he had an inkling of the sheer hopelessness that was felt when such a young, vibrant life was extinguished. It, oddly enough, made Mark think of Steve as a father, imagining him with a brood of teenaged boys and perhaps even a girl. It also made him wonder about his own feelings toward the man who had tried to kill his son.

The judge's voice sounded in the courtroom, drawing Mark from his mental wanderings. It was his turn to speak. He felt Steve rest a hand briefly on his arm, as if to encourage him when he moved to his feet and headed for the vacated podium. As he approached the polished wood surface facing the presiding judge, the irony of the situation resonated in his mind. Miles had tried to kill Steve; Steve had pulled the trigger of the gun that had killed his son.

But that changed nothing. Mark had to say what was on his mind. Suddenly the words were burning to get out. "Your honor," he began, "I am sure you're familiar with the oaths that are taken by different professions, including yours. A doctor takes an oath, too, and one of the tenants of that oath is to 'do no harm'. Miles Casey broke that oath in the worse possible way. He attempted to violently take the life of another human being.

"Shortly before he went to my son's room and took his police weapon from a drawer, he told me very pointedly that unless I had experienced the death of a child, I could not understand his grief." Mark paused, recalling how those words had rang through his head during the long hours of waiting, unsure whether Steve would survive the aftermath of his injuries. They seemed burrowed deep in his soul and some days he wondered if their echo would ever release him.

"My son is a police officer," he continued after a moment. "He puts himself in harm's way every day in an attempt to save the lives of others. That's an oath he took. He fulfills it with courage and honor. It makes me both proud and fearful because I know that there is the possibility that someday he might not come home.

"Lieutenant Steve Sloan, my son, nearly died from the injuries that Miles Casey inflicted. He almost got his wish that I experience his grief first hand. Yet, I would never think to wish such an experience on any parent, regardless of my own sorrow. What this man did was unconscionable. There can be no excuse for what he tried to do, no mitigation for the harm that he caused." He allowed a moment for the words to sink in, and then added quietly, "Thank you for allowing me to speak." Having let the words out, Mark turned and made his way back to sit beside Steve. Oddly, he felt lighter, as if he'd left a burden up there on the wooden stand.

After he sat, the judge called for a twenty minute recess, and Mark turned toward Steve, curious of his reaction. The smile that he was favored with warmed the corners of his heart.

"Buy you a cup of coffee?" Steve asked, gesturing toward the back of the courtroom where some of the patrons were filing out.

"Are you sure your doctor will approve of your having caffeine?" Mark couldn't resist teasing, though it skirted around the subject he really wanted to discuss.

"Who's going to tell him?" Steve shot back, playing along.

"Do you really have to ask?" Mark grinned at him. "You know we doctors are all in cahoots."

Steve sobered a little. "I wouldn't say that."

Mark remembered Miles' profession and sobered as well. It was time to get back to the question at hand. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Why did I say what I did up there?" Steve asked.

"Yes." Mark didn't pretend that Steve hadn't hit the nail squarely on the head. "You really shouldn't feel guilty about what happened in that warehouse. It was an accident. And even if it wasn't, it was self-defense."

"I know that, Dad," Steve told him. "Knowing that Ryan was a marksman actually puts the whole thing in a different light. He even aimed squarely for the center of the vest, not my head or arms or legs. I think he was trying to incapacitate me so that he would have a chance to get away. He forgot to take into account that my finger was on the trigger."

Mark frowned, doubly confused. Steve had never told him his conclusions regarding the shooting, and now that he had, he had even less of an idea of why he would speak at Casey's hearing in the manner that he had. "So why did you . . . ?"

Steve interrupted. "Remember when Eddie Gault threatened to hurt you, and when that bomber got out of jail that'd vowed to get you back, or when you'd gotten infected with . . . ."

Mark held up a hand in defense. "Okay, I get it; I've made a few enemies and gotten into a little trouble."

"Yeah, just a little," Steve teased, "I'm surprised I'm not the one with gray hair." The humor faded as he continued. "The point is, there was a second, when you were threatened or when one of them got too close that I felt like I was just crazy enough maybe to step across that line. I know I could. The thing that stops me isn't that I wear a badge, or because I believe so strongly in the legal system, but because that would be no way to honor your memory."

Mark felt speechless. "I'm . . . . I' sorry, Steve. I never meant to put you in such a situation. I wouldn't want –."

"It's okay." Steve smiled. "I don't want you to stop being who you are, I only want for you to be careful."

Mark nodded in emphatic agreement. "I promise. And that goes both ways, you know. I'm very proud of you, and I sorta like having you around."

Steve laughed, and looked around the nearly empty courtroom. "How about that coffee – decaf variety."

"How about: I happen to know of a great juice bar not far from here."

"I guess that's doctor's orders."

"And fathers."

"Well in that case, how could I possibly refuse?"

End ----

A/N: In case any one is still wondering what that line was in "You Bet Your Life": I'll admit the episode is only a vague memory, but the line was something along the lines of unless Mark experienced the death of his own child, he couldn't understand this other guy's grief. The gist of the line obviously stuck with me. This story is the result. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
